


nauva i nauva

by itsybitsyasterisk



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Erebor fix-it?, Gen, Harry's saving people thing is intact, Magic translates funny across worlds, Reincarnation, Sort of? - Freeform, even if he doesn't remember a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 07:16:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3801541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsybitsyasterisk/pseuds/itsybitsyasterisk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>It’s a memory he’s drawing upon, one of those many he can’t quite grasp, can’t really guess where they’re from because they’re not from this life. He has never seen a dragon before and yet the picture in his mind is vivid. It is as effortless as everything else to want, turning the small feathery wings huge and leathery, carrying the heavy body, propelling it forward faster and faster until he’s shooting through the sky.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Harry Potter died. Tiarn was born. Across worlds, magic translates in funny ways. But the saving-people-thing, that remains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	nauva i nauva

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own any of these fandoms.  
> Not beta'd, beware mistakes.  
> I still don't get this layout thingie on AO3 one bit and it shows.

He has never been as aware that he is technically an elf as he suddenly is when Gandalf drags him to Erebor.

Their entry is granted with a certain kind of reluctance and distaste that only seems to amuse Gandalf but serves to prove Tiarn absolutely right in his assumption that he would not be welcome here

Not that he hadn’t told Gandalf that.

Repeatedly.

But when an old wizard happily puffs on his pipe and tells you not to worry about it, there is no getting through that thick skull. It certainly is novel, being stared and then summarily glared at by dwarves. He tries not to ogle them too much but he has never seen one of their race before.

They are stocky, densely built, with pride to fill caravans and attitude to match. He thinks that he catches glimpses of female features under some of those elaborately woven beards and while the concept is certainly peculiar, he has also seen many elves where it was impossible to distinguish any particular gender.

The derision the dwarves show at his race is unsurprising but unwelcome and the feeling makes his skin crawl, makes him eager to leave this form behind and move on. Tiarn has never really thought of himself as an elf.

The idea of being only one thing, one fixed inevitability, is foreign and repulsive. More often than not he prefers wings or four paws instead of two feet and two hands.

He doesn’t think that Gandalf would appreciate anything other than exactly that at his side right now, though. And while he certainly regularly resents the riddle-spinning wizard, there’s no need to antagonise him needlessly.

Erebor itself is breath-taking. Tiarn marvels at the masterfully hewn stone that shows just how much blood and sweat must have gone into the creation of this kingdom. Here and there, a delightful array of gems sparkle in the light of candles and there are a few spots where it seems that the dwarves carved out the entire mountain to let fresh air and the occasional bout of sunlight in.

Tiarn tears his focus from the masterwork and looks at Gandalf. “Marvellous as this is, is there any particular reason you dragged me here, wizard?”

Gandalf gives him a long, speculative gaze.

“Did you know,” he says finally when Tiarn has almost resigned himself to no answers, again, “that dragons love gold, but mostly gold that is very precious to someone?”

“Females love their eggs more,” he replies promptly, accepting the non-sequitur without comment.

Gandalf blinks and frowns at him. “Be that as it may,” he says slowly when Tiarn isn’t forthcoming, “the dwarves have an unholy love of their gold. I fear it may attract danger sooner or later.”  
  
Tiarn hmms, attention already diverted. There are twinkles and flashes of gems and metal everywhere now that they’ve reached the market and it’s terribly distracting as nature demands that he investigate.

Gandalf sighs, sounding quite put-upon. Tiarn pays him no heed, eyes flitting around in restless quest. It’s hard, resisting the curiosity. But before he can give in, Gandalf grabs his arm and forcibly moves him onwards.

“Worse than a magpie,” he hears the wizard mutter. He doesn’t protest. It’s true enough. Though _worse_ might be a little exaggerated. They leave the markets faster than he would have liked.

The farther they get now, deeper into the mountain, the more elaborate the stone carvings and embellishments become. It isn’t too hard to guess that they are nearing the heart of the kingdom, with its throne and king.

Why he is needed here Tiarn has still yet to figure out. If Gandalf wants him here to fight a dragon then the wizard will be in for a rude awakening. Dragons don’t come on anyone’s clock and as beautiful as Erebor is, he refuses to spend days down here to wait for one.

They won’t have to, it turns out. Tiarn watches as King Thrór spits curses at Gandalf, between throwing glares and hateful remarks in his very own direction.

Gandalf grows ever sterner, ever more foreboding but Tiarn hardly bats an eye at the King’s cutting words, stands back with his hands clasped behind his back.

“You must know, old fool,” Gandalf finally shouts thunderously, “that your kingdom is in great danger! Does that not penetrate that gold-hazed mind of yours? What a tragedy, seeing King Thrórbereft of all that made him great and worthy of respect!”

Next to the throne, the hitherto motionless prince shifts and Tiarn’s eyes snap to him. Prince Thorin’s face is stony but there is a slight slant to his mouth that tells a tale of anger, a glint in his eye that speaks of bitterness and shame… and silent agreement.

They are aware of Thrór’s condition but they are powerless to do anything. The realisation puts a frown on Tiarn’s face.

As soon as Thorin’s eyes move to meet his he looks away, focuses on the way Gandalf’s grey robe shifts as he gesticulates irritatedly. He might not feel insulted by the dwarvish hate he experienced today because he cannot identify with what they abhor, but he supposes it is any living being’s instinct to avoid being confronted with such open dislike needlessly.

“GO!” King Thrór bellows, face redder than the most brilliant sunset Tiarn has seen, shaking with wrath as he rises from his throne and points at the doors, “Go, thrice-damned wizard and take that cursed elf with you! I will not let you poison my mountain with your foolish drivel! Begone, stormcrow!”

Gandalf draws himself up until he stands upright in his considerable height. For a few moments only icy silence reigns in the throne room, then Gandalf says, calmly, coldly: “Very well. If it is King Thrór’s wish, we shall depart. When the worst happens I advise you to wonder what could have been.”

Just for a moment, Tiarn thinks to see a flash of clarity in Thrór’s eyes, a dawning horror. But with the blink of an eye the expression is gone and he sneers after them.

They waste no time leaving Erebor.

Not even the glittering market slows Tiarn’s step as he effortlessly keeps pace with the angry wizard. When the heavy gates of Erebor lie behind them and sunlight warms their faces, Gandalf begins to curse in frustration.

“Dwarves, Tiarn,” he says sometime during his rant but Tiarn makes a point not to listen too closely to anything Gandalf says when he’s angry, “They’re the most stubborn, foolish, prideful, conceited race I have ever had the misfortune to meet. Gold! Jewels! Pah! What good will that do them, in the end?”

When Gandalf begins to quieten, Tiarn speaks for the first time since leaving Erebor.  
  
“They know,” he says, “and sometimes Thrór knows too, that his madness dooms his kingdom.”

Gandalf harrumphs, then deflates. “We tried our best,” he murmurs wearily, pulling forth his pipe from the cloak and lighting it. “Valar be merciful and these dwarves might survive.”

It is nice to be included, Tiarn thinks a bit detachedly, even when you have no clue whatsoever why you were even there in the first place. But now there is no pressing curiosity anymore. So he just says: “Will you be staying with Beorn for the night?”

“If he will have me,” Gandalf says, puffing his pipe with a slightly more satisfied expression, “if you are willing to take me.”

Tiarn smiles. “How lowly you think of me, friend, that I would leave you here.”

“Not lowly. Simply beneath being used as convenient transport.”

Tiarn snickers. “Flatterer.”

It almost takes no conscious thought at all, no effort beyond will, to bend his shape. It’s a painful delight, a rush beyond happiness, a warm shiver across his skin chased by a satisfying chill.

Gandalf doesn’t step closer until Tiarn lowers his head and snorts.

“Marvellous, no matter how many times I see it,” he says and rests a hand on the dark horse neck. Not petting because Gandalf knows better. Simply a brief gesture of thanks before the wizard swings onto his back.

As soon as he feels the man secure, Tiarn sets off, first at a trot, then faster and faster as his muscles stretch. Soon he has reached a comfortable tempo, swift enough to reach their destination within the day, slow enough not to tire too easily.

Sometimes he feels he has learned from the wind, feels as if he competes against a playful gust just beyond his reach.

They take the longer route around Greenwood. Tiarn knows his way around the forest well enough but it is no place for a horse and they don’t need the ambiguous hospitality of the wood elves.

Beorn’s hut appears in their view just as the sun is about to set. Tiarn slows down, nearing in a casual trot. Beorn’s ponies neigh their greetings and he’s not shy to return them. This is his nature, this is who he is. More comfortable as an animal than an elf.

Beorn is waiting for them on his doorstep as Tiarn finally comes to a stop and Gandalf dismounts. “I was wondering how long it would take the dwarves to drive you away,” Beorn says with a small, dry smile.

Gandalf snorts. “Well, this visit was short even for me. Beorn, I’m afraid I must ask for your hospitality once more.”

Tiarn changes back and stretches, muscles a bit sore but delightfully loose from the long run.

“I figured,” Beorn says lazily, watching him. “Will you be staying too, Tiarn?”  
As always, from Beorn’s lips it sounds less like the name he made it and more like the title it is.

“I don’t think I shall,” he says, tilting his head back to watch the bloody sky. The colour is utterly brilliant but seldom is a sunset this vibrant. “There’s something on the horizon.”  
Beorn follows his gaze, frowns. “Beware the darkness, then.”

Tiarn simply nods and watches as the burly man disappears into his hut. Gandalf lingers.  
“I would ask you to keep an eye on Erebor, if I thought it would make any difference,” the wizard finally says, lines on his face suddenly stark, worn. “But I know better than most that fate cannot be cheated once it has set a course.”

“What will be, shall be, Gandalf.” Tiarn says firmly and meets Gandalf’s eyes head-on. “That is the way it is. That is the way it will always be.”

The wizard huffs. There’s a glint in his eyes that Tiarn can’t read. “Indeed. Farewell then, Tiarn, ‘til we meet again.”

Tiarn inclines his head in agreement and watches as the grey wizard steps into Beorn’s hut before willing and taking off the ground on great wings. What will be, shall be. Tiarn has always hated that saying.

 

~~

 

Beorn found him on a cold winter’s night, Tiarn remembers clearly.

He remembers the desperation, the confusion, the hunger, the horrible clarity that he will not survive the cold. Then he remembers a huge, lumbering figure hovering over him and he remembers snapping and biting, trying to hurt even though he’s _tiny_ , _why is he so tiny_.

He remembers burying small claws in strong arms, miniscule teeth trying to rip skin apart, remembers a sharp beak, wings that uselessly flap about, remembers being slim and long, winding on the ground, baring poisonous fangs, hissing.

The giant didn’t react, didn’t fling him away, barely fazed. But he did talk, deep voice reverberating, speaking words that didn’t make any sense because he didn’t try to listen.

But it became clear that he couldn’t escape and he grew tired, exhausted to the bone. The giant picked him up and the next thing Tiarn remembers is the warmth of a hearth, the heavy weight of a blanket on top of him, the delicious smell of food in the air.

He wriggled until he could see something, too weak to do much other than crawl on his belly. The giant was there, sitting on the floor only an arm’s length away from him.

“There’s no need for that, Tiarn,” the giant said when his fur reflexively stood on end and he bared his teeth. “I will not hurt you, this I swear.”

The giant meant it, he could tell. The giant smelled honest, his heartbeat was loud and steady. He closed his muzzle but his fur didn’t lie down and he skidded away as fast as he could on small legs when the giant reached out with an arm. But instead of being lifted into the air, a dish was pushed in his direction, so delicious smelling that his hunger came back with a vengeance, biting into his belly with sharp harshness.

It wasn’t a voluntary, conscious decision as much as raw survival instinct that had him coming forward again, devouring the food so quickly he nearly choked.

The giant didn’t try to convince him to slow down but continued talking. The voice was like background noise, a deep rumbling, so calm, so firm. It was soothing, enough so that he stopped eating to look up at the man sitting not too far away for a few moments.

The giant noticed and his grim face softened with a gentle smile. He stared for a few more heartbeats, then he returned to his food, slower now.

Eventually the plate was empty and he felt more sated than he could ever remember being. His eyelids grew heavier by the second and he padded back to his pile of blankets, half burying himself underneath them. He felt safe which was novel. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this safe.

He didn’t even flinch when a large hand carefully stroked across his exposed head, scratched gently between his ears.

“Won’t you turn back, Tiarn?” the giant asked quietly. “You must not have been human in a very long time, I think.”

_Human._ Did he even still know what that meant?

But it turned out not to be so difficult to figure out. Just like any other form it just required will and observation. The giant provided him the latter, he somehow scrounged up the first.

It was a joyful shiver, a painful tingle, just like always. The giant’s hand didn’t stop the lulling petting but he heard his breath hitch.

Curious, suspicious, he opened his eyes and turned his head. It felt strange, being human but especially it felt cold without fur or feathers or scales.

The giant was staring at his exposed ear. He shivered when a large, rough fingertip traced the pointed tip and wriggled, writhed until he was further covered by the blanket, almost nothing visible except his hair and the one eye he observed the giant with.

The big man muttered an apology, offering a small smile. He didn’t protest when those large fingers continued threading through his hair.

“There you are,” the giant said soothingly. “Go to sleep, Tiarn. You’re safe here.”

It almost took no time at all to fall asleep.

 

~~

 

  
Watching Erebor proves not to be as dull as Tiarn feared initially.

Despite the kingdom being underground and thus out of sight, the gates provide enough busy rustle and bustle. Merchants set up their stalls at dawn for trade with people from Dales and the odd elf from Greenwood. That’s a surprise, actually.

Then again, what do merchants care who buys their wares? Gold is gold, no matter if the hand that held it before was elven or human or dwarven.

Tiarn watches in disquiet. These people will be the first to die when a dragon attacks. They are close to Erebor’s gates but too far away all the same. Every distance is too far when a dragon sweeps down to attack.

For days, even a week, there is no sign of danger.

Tiarn has learned patience well enough and so he doesn’t get restless. When he is hungry he hunts and he sleeps in short naps but otherwise he sits motionlessly, wings tucked.

On the eleventh day he feels it in the air. It thrums, hums, a vibration in his chest. He hears the heavy beat of wings only seconds before a massive dragon suddenly appears, diving down from the clouds. Tiarn doesn’t hesitate.

He starts as a hawk, gains height and speed before he allows himself to think about _black, shimmering scales, deadly, long spikes on its head, on its back, on its tail, wicked, rendering claws, fire so hot it doesn’t burn, it melts_.

It’s a memory he’s drawing upon, one of those many he can’t quite grasp, can’t really guess where they’re from because they’re not from this life. He has never seen a dragon before and yet the picture in his mind is vivid.

It is as effortless as everything else to want, turning the small feathery wings huge and leathery, carrying the heavy body, propelling it forward faster and faster until he’s shooting through the sky.  
He hears the people scream, dwarves and humans alike, those very merchants he feared for not too long ago.

The dragon breathes fire, sets the stalls alight. It makes to chase the tradesmen that are running for the safety of Erebor but Tiarn has caught up to him.

With a heaven-splitting shriek Tiarn collides in mid-flight and uses the other dragon’s surprise to bury his claws in flesh as deep as they go, tearing scales off ruthlessly. The dragon screeches, retaliates but Tiarn doesn’t let go.

“You dare attack Smaug!” the dragon roars, furiously beating wings to prevent imminent crash down onto the earth. Tiarn increases his efforts, spits flame right into Smaug’s face. The dragon screams.

They drop to the ground like stones and the earth seems to shake with the force of it.

Tiarn bellows in pain when Smaug’s claws find his belly and his teeth snap blindly in raged frenzy. They find purchase at the side of Tiarn’s long neck, don’t hesitate to clamp down and tear.

Tiarn shouts as pain explodes and he twists his claws deeper into Smaug’s flesh, writhes until the dragon has to let go.

He puts distance between them, feels the deep wounds on his neck and belly bleed freely and heavily. The pain is a harsh thing but he had worse and he roars his challenge at Smaug as the other dragon stumbles to his legs, cursing at him all the while. He feels the spikes on his hide straighten in blatant intimidation.

It’s a long fight, so long Tiarn loses all feeling of time. He had the initial advantage of surprise but that is gone and Smaug is wily. His fire burns hot, so hot Tiarn’s scales threaten to crack under the heat.

The second time Smaug tries to turn it into an aerial battle towards Erebor Tiarn crashes them so hard one of Smaug’s wings shatters. But he gets a slew of deep slashes in return, one only just missing his left eye, another almost disabling his right hind leg as the muscle is severed.

He realises early on that this is a fight he might not win, not if he’s not smarter than Smaug. But when it finally happens it’s almost surreal. Smaug has him pinned one moment and in the next Tiarn sees the opening, rears up, closes his teeth around Smaug’s throat and _tears_.

And just like that, the massive body of a dragon thumps to the ground.

For several moments Tiarn just tries to breathe. The pain is mind-numbing but brings everything into sharp focus at the same time.  
_Get out of this skin. Get out, change._

This time it doesn’t even take a thought.

One moment he is a massive, wounded dragon, pain sharp and immediate and the next moment he is an elf, painted in his own blood, pain turning into agony.

Tiarn grits his teeth and crawls until he can prop himself up against Smaug’s still hot corpse. This has to be better than to be mistaken for a real dragon and killed while unconscious. It has to be even if nothing in the world seems like it’s worth this much pain.

He concentrates on breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

His eyes slip up to the bright sky. The day doesn’t care about what almost happened here.

Tiarn coughs. Warm, viscous blood coats his lips. He won’t die here because he’s a shapeshifter. He has survived worse.

Still, it’s not pleasant, certainly not the healing. It prickles painfully when the muscle in his leg heals slowly, very slowly, one fibre at a time almost.

Maybe he stared into the sky and lost himself there or maybe he also fell unconscious or asleep. Whatever it is, he doesn’t hear the steps that come closer until they’re only a few feet away. He is more animal than man when healthy; he is more wounded predator than prey when not.

Tiarn’s head snaps towards the noise. The gaping wound in his neck screams at him but he swallows the pain, banishes it from his mind. “Not. A step. Closer.” he says dangerously, just loud enough to carry.

Maybe it’s his tone of voice, maybe it’s the look in his eyes - wild, he must look wild, feral like he was when Beorn found him - but it makes Prince Thorin and his two companions stop in their tracks.

They look pale, like they’re still reeling and have not yet quite realised what almost happened and didn’t.

“You’re… the elf that came with Gandalf.” Thorin finally says. His voice doesn’t shake but it doesn’t sound like he’s entirely sure what to say or do either.

Tiarn’s lips twitch in distaste. “Elf,” he repeats disdainfully, spits a mouthful of blood to his left, not for one moment taking his eyes off them. The white-bearded dwarf to Thorin’s right is looking him over, gaze lingering on each and every wound oozing blood. When he looks up again, his eyes seem to say how can you possibly still be alive?

Tiarn bares his bloody teeth and calls it a smile. “But yes. Elf. I suppose that’s at least partly accurate.”

The third dwarf, Mohawk and beard, narrows his eyes. He seems ready to open his mouth and question that statement further but he doesn’t get the chance.

“We will get you a healer,” the white-bearded dwarf says. “Before it’s too late. Those wounds look serious, it would be best if -“

“I don’t need a healer,” Tiarn interrupts and ignores the incredulous gazes that earns him. His leg feels somewhat healed, not entirely but good enough.

He pushes himself to his feet, using Smaug as a crutch when the blood loss sends his head spinning and his vision is drained of all colour. He sways for a few moments until he manages to find his balance.

“Why did you help us?” Thorin’s voice is quiet. Maybe he doesn’t know if he really wants to know the answer to that or maybe he thinks that Tiarn won’t hear him.

Tiarn blinks once, twice, waits for the colour to return in slow increments. He takes a few only half-sure footed steps towards them until he is three arm’s length away. He doesn’t miss the way the Mohawk dwarf’s hand twitches to the heavy two-hander strapped to his back or how the dwarf stills when Tiarn looks at him.

“When Gandalf brought me here,” he replies, looking back to Thorin, “I saw something worth saving. And I do hope you see something worth preserving, Prince Thorin, because Gandalf was right. Smaug didn’t just happen to stumble across Erebor in a random accident today. He came because that mountain is full of things you dwarves seem to love above all else and all reason and he was attracted by that greed.”

Tiarn stares into Thorin’s eyes unblinkingly, willing the dwarf to see truth.

“I won you a second chance today. _Do_ try to use it, yes?”


End file.
